Pitch: A Look Back- Aid

I've been wanting to write and post some stories I've thought up for Pitch's background. Between writer's block, artsing, and playing the game, it, uh, hasn't happened yet. BUT! Here's a start to one of them at last. Enjoy!

(Sidenote: this was a long time ago, when Pitch was somewhere around 210-230; his current age is 612)
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Ashenvale was a quiet forest, with nothing usually heard beyond birdsong and frog calls, and the occasional howling of its native wolves. This morning, in this particular clearing, a new sound was heard- the muttered prayers of a young Kal'dorei.

The elf sat on the weather-smoothed stump of a fallen tree, head bowed and face hidden in his hands. He was a druid, apparent from the leathers he wore, leathers decorated with the plant and animal spirits common among druids. And he had a very big problem.

He wished he could go to his brother for help, like he had always done before. But he could feel that this was something he had to solve himself. And so he prayed- to Elune, to Malorne, to any of the gods that might hear him and be moved enough to send aid.

"Better be a damned good reason yer hollering an' blubbering in my woods, boy." He jerked his head up as a rough voice cut through the clearing, and blinked at the apparition standing before him, about ten yards away. It was another Kal'dorei, but ancient-looking, his skin badly weathered and his long, tangled hair faded to almost white. Even in his elf form and at that distance, the younger one could smell a faint animal musk coming from him. He squinted at the younger elf from a creased and scarred face, and when he received no answer he added, "Else ya better get back where ya belong. I got no use for soft-nosed cubs, an' I don' share territ'ry with anyone."

The youngster blinked again. "Uh, pardon?" The newcomer sighed. "Did they na teach ya to speak proper, or are ya just an idiot?" he asked irritably. "Uh, no," the first one replied quickly, his senses returning after his surprise. "I just... well... I have... problems." The old one rolled his eyes dramatically. "We're all got problems, boy. Why're ya here in my woods is the point." The "boy" thought for a moment, then slid off the tree stump, patting it invitingly. "It might be a long story. Want to sit down?" The elder grunted, but he did walk across the clearing and take the offered seat, his worn, dirty leathers creaking as he did. "A'ight, cub," he groused once seated. "Out with it." So the young druid told him all.

About how he was learning the feral path of druidism, because he had little talent for magic but was a natural shape-shifter. How he had just recently learned to take on his cat shape, and reveled in it in a way that went beyond even his bear form. And then how the dreams had started. Dreams of hunting in the woods, killing everything he came across, until he was bathed in blood. Of how he would go to sleep in his bed as an elf, and wake up far from home in his cat form with no memory of how he had gotten there. Sometimes when he woke, he found blood on his paws or jaws. How they got worse, until he had fled here, afraid that he would lose control completely and injure or kill one of his siblings next. The old one listened without interrupting, something he was profoundly grateful for. As he finished, he suddenly realized something. "You're a druid too," he said, and the oldster chuckled.

"I am. Might be I've even been through somma the things ya've just mentioned. But the question is, boy, what're ya going to do now?" The young one thought. "I suppose," he said slowly, "That I should find someone that can help me. You know, teach me to control myself. But, I don't know where to start." The old one shook his head at the other's denseness. "Might be I can help. Shirvallah knows I've got the time. Then ya can get outta my territ'ry." The young druid blinked at him. "Would you?" he asked feelingly. "That'd be wonderful. Then I can get back to my family."

The old one nodded curtly. "Well'en, we're settled," he grunted, then stood and pointed into the woods. "M'house's thataway, bout two hours walk. Let's get 'er going." He started off. The younger one scrambled to his feet and followed. "Thank you for doing this. My name is Dranas," he offered as he caught up. The elder grunted again. "Don' need yer name, cub. An' don' thank me. We've na even started yet."